


it's anchored on a feeling

by strangethetimes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Coming Out, Family Dynamics, Good Parents Maggie & Wentworth Tozier, Multi, One Shot, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27770590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangethetimes/pseuds/strangethetimes
Summary: Maggie knows that something's bothering her son and pushes the subject.(AKA Richie comes out to his mom)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Maggie Tozier/Wentworth Tozier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	it's anchored on a feeling

It’s dark when he finally gets out of his car. Inklings of stars riddle the November sky like tears of angels frozen over by the frigid air. There’s a storm coming, that much Maggie knows, but not one of rain or snow. It’s an instinct, buried deep in her bones and animalistic in a way she’s never been able to understand.

Richie always acts strangely in the days before Eddie visits from Manhattan — whether it be in form of talking far quicker than his usual speed, spiraling into a cleaning frenzy, or taking a sudden interest in his appearance. She hasn't gotten the chance to ask about it, always brushed off or ignored whenever the topic starts to rear its head.

But, this time? She’s been his mother for almost two decades, and the one thing she’s never known him to be is reserved. So, when the front door doesn’t slam shut to announce his arrival, she has to say  _ something  _ and she can’t let him get away with changing the subject.

“You’re late,” she calls from the kitchen. It doesn’t come out quite right, she can tell by the soured look on his face as he follows the sound. He leaves a trail of his winter clothes behind him. A navy blue coat and the crocheted scarf she’d given him a few weeks ago, the first of many hobbies she’s picked up lately, lie strewn across the living room (at least that much hasn’t changed since he started college).

“I know, I was just—”

“Sitting in your car?” She smiles at him, the quietest way to let him know this isn’t the start of an argument. She could see him through the window while she did the dishes, there’s no denying it.

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumped with the rest of his posture. Her first thought is to correct him, but she lets it go. Instead, her eyes flicker to the dimmed lights above them and she frowns. The dark of the night permeates into the house and threatens to swallow them whole. It’s foreboding, a sign of the incoming storm.

“How do we keep forgetting to buy light bulbs? What’s the point of moving to a new place if you can’t look at it?”

“To stay with your darling baby boy, obviously.”

“And how is my darling baby boy, huh?” She opens the oven and grabs the plate she’d saved for him, not hearing the quiet huff Richie lets out. In her periphery, she sees him shake his head.

“He’s fine.”

“Is he?” She glances at him, careful, and the corner of his lip twitches.

“Yeah,” he says. It’s not very convincing. He leans against the counter and starts eating, with little to no regard for how much of an animal he resembles — hunched over the plate and using a speed that’d make strangers think he never gets any food. It’d be funny, Maggie thinks, if the silence weren’t so loud; it resembles tornado sirens, a warning for those in the sights of a destructive, dangerous path.

“So, when’s Eddie supposed to get here?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, I guess,” he shrugs. He won’t look at her, and the speed at which he eats finally slows to a stop.

“You sound  _ super _ jazzed about it.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, shrugging again. He only mumbles when he’s lying, she’s had years of experience to recognize the pattern. Any question of who didn’t do their laundry, who didn’t make their bed, and who left their bike out in the front yard would be met with a mumbling lie.

“Did you two have a fight?” she prods.

“No,” he says abruptly, still not looking at her. His eyes are fixed on the tile floor, a black and white checkerboard to compliment the dark green walls; Went had picked the color and it turned out well, just as every other decision in the new house had. But, she highly doubts the fixation is due to design appreciation.

“Is it because of school? Do you feel like you aren’t as close as before?” She just now notices how much Richie’s fidgeting — tapping his feet, nodding his head, and wobbling the fork in his hand. His tics always get worse when he's anxious.

“I don’t know.”

“I thought you liked Eddie,” she says. His head snaps up and he looks mad, furious even, as he raises his voice.

“I don’t  _ like—” _ He stops, choking on his own breath. He slams the plate down on the counter and heads for the door. “I’m not hungry.”

“Tell me what’s wrong.” She grabs his shoulder and he shakes his head vigorously. He won’t turn around and she won’t let him go. They’re at a stand still, stuck in the middle of the doorway, and neither one of them will give. It’s not surprising. Stubbornness runs in both sides of the family, a trademarked Tozier trait.

“Richie,” she says softly, almost begging. A sigh slips from his lips, defeated, and he relaxes against the frame.

“How did you know you loved Dad?” he asks.

“Oh, well, on our first year anniversary, he—”

“No, like...how did you  _ know?”  _ He lowers his voice, insistent, and Maggie can see the frustration building up in his chest like waves barreling toward the shore. She’s not sure when it’ll break, but it’s coming fast. This is the storm.

“What do you mean?”

“God, never mind. Fucking forget it.”

“Richie, I’m  _ trying  _ here.”

“How could you understand?” he cries. Her arm falls back to her side as he turns from her again. “You spent your entire fucking life in places like Derry! Fucking shit-holes that make you feel like you’re suffocating all the time. There’s no way to see the world beyond that.” Maggie frowns at him. She tries to let it slide, because she knows he must be hurting to direct his anger at her like that, but she can’t keep her temper on a tight enough leash (that’s a family trait too).

“Are we fighting about that again? I don’t remember where we left off last time.”

“No, I just—” His hands fly up to his head, yanking on his hair, and he groans as he curls into himself. “This is what I’m talking about!”

“I’m sorry, okay?” she yells, throwing her hands up. This argument is tired and told, never resolved, and she’s getting sick of it. What was so bad about Derry? They tried their best, and shouldn’t that be enough? “I don’t know what happened, Rich. I really don’t. We thought it’d be a safe, small town for you to grow up in and I’m _sorry_ it didn’t turn out the way we hoped, but you can’t—”

“THIS ISN’T  _ ABOUT _ DERRY!” he screams. The entire house is flooded with that echoing, pulsing silence, and the wave has hit the shore. There’s more devastation than she anticipated, a wreckage of ships from the harbor nearby, and she stands helpless in the sand, soaked to the bone. He stares, wide-eyed, and she realizes he’s scared. He’s  _ terrified.  _ She stares back, at a loss.

Richie breaks down in tears and throws his arms around her. It’s almost aggressive, how fast he buries himself in her arms, but she holds him just as fast. And how she holds him brings her years back. He clings to her the way he did when he was younger, with her hand cradling his head and his arms around her waist, no matter how much taller he is than her now.

Went looms at the bottom of the steps, unsure if he has to step in, and she shakes her head. Whatever this is, it’s not for the entire family to sort through — it’s just between her and Richie. He merely nods at her and disappears upstairs.

“Tell me what’s wrong, honey,” Maggie pleads. He pulls away and leans against the doorway again, head hanging low and arms folded across his chest. His eyes are red and puffy, still kissed by tears. He lifts his glasses to wipe them away, but it doesn’t do much to help.

“I don’t  _ feel  _ the way I’m supposed to. I think I might be broken,” Richie says softly. It’s almost a chuckle, the sound he lets out, but it’s so much sadder than that. It breaks her heart.

“Why would you ever think something like that?”

“Because it’s true, Ma. I’m not...I’m not normal.”

“Fuck normal, then!” He stares at her, mouth agape, and they both start to giggle. She never curses, especially not like that. And, when the silence settles, it feels a bit more comfortable than before. But, she sees the hesitation on his face and waits for what comes next, because she  _ knows _ there’s a next — an aftermath.

“Do you remember Betty?” He shifts his weight and looks away from her again. What is it so heinous, she wonders, that would make him think she couldn’t bear to look at him? Various concerning things cross her mind — drugs, accidental pregnancies, maybe even cults, though she feels ridiculous for thinking it.

“Do I remember the first and only girlfriend you’ve ever had?” she asks sarcastically. Richie just rolls his eyes. It’d been hard when they broke up, about four months of the blues and disappearing ice cream pints until he moved on.

“Yeah, that one.”

“What about her?”

“I really liked her,” he says.

“I know.”

“And—” he hesitates, taking a deep breath “—and I really like Eddie.” It hangs in the air, briefly, and she lets out a quiet breath of solace. She wants to ask if that’s all, if all this was about was his feelings for Eddie, but she doesn’t want to downplay the moment. Her best friend in high school is the same, came out to her when they were in college and cried about being confused, about being broken. She didn’t care then just as she doesn’t care now.

“Oh,” she breathes, trying and failing to suppress a small smile, “well, that’s okay.”

“Is it?” Richie asks, almost scared. He looks at her expectantly and she puts a hand on his cheek, the smile grows as he leans into her touch and she wipes a stray tear with her thumb.

“Of course, it is.” His breathing hitches, so utterly relieved, and he starts crying again. She opens her arms to him, hoping it can wordlessly convey how much she cherishes him. She wants to say it, but knows how difficult this must have been for him in the first place. Emotions were never his strong suit, repressed after whatever happened in Derry, and she’s just glad he told her. They could use some humor anyway.

“You know, your dad and I were thinking about having a date night on Saturday, so—”

“God, Ma, I don’t wanna hear about that.” Richie pushes away with a disgusted face, and she lets her head fall back for a quick laugh.

“I was talking about you and Eddie,” she reassures. Seeing how bright red her son’s face goes only makes her laugh harder. They’ve never really talked about sex, as that’s always been Went’s area of parenting, so inviting him to spend a night alone with his best friend is just as shocking as it is to hear her curse — probably even more so.

“I haven’t even told him yet,” he stammers.

“Why not?”

“What if I ruin everything?” The tension from before, though nowhere near as strong, dances among his voice.

“I don’t think you will.”

“How do you know?”

“The kid drives three hours every month to see you for two days then drives another three to go home,” she scoffs, “it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why.” It’s not surprising, in hindsight, to find out that they needed to have this conversation. It’s almost embarrassing just how oblivious she was until the past couple of months, how years of affectionate nicknames and fierce loyalty had gone over her head. He’s always been loyal to his friends, sure, but Eddie was always different. Still is, apparently.

“Maybe it’s because he's my best friend,” he argues.

“Fat chance.” They stifle their respective giggles and, one more time, the dwindling tension is back. He looks to the stairs, and Maggie knows what he’s thinking about — Went and his reaction.

“When do I tell dad?” he asks helplessly. It makes her want to roll her eyes, as if Went wasn’t the first one to figure out the connection between Richie’s weird behavior and Eddie’s visits, but she knows better than to do it.

“Whenever you want to,” she shrugs, “he might be surprised, but he won’t care, Rich.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll help if you want me to.” Then, Richie looks back to her, finally unashamed, and smiles. The storm has passed.


End file.
